


Real

by days4daisy



Category: People of Earth (TV 2016)
Genre: Autumn, M/M, Season/Series 02, ToT: Chocolate Box, Trick or Treat: Treat, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-20 12:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12432720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: "Or hey! Did you kiss me like some stupid fairy tale? Walsh, this is the dumbest thing- why are you looking at me like that?”





	Real

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fenellaevangela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenellaevangela/gifts).



Ozzie has been remembering strange things. Things that never mattered before. Things about Walsh.

Like, when Ozzie worked for the guy, every October Walsh would put a cup of candy corn on his desk. It annoyed Ozzie; to be fair,  _everything_ about Walsh annoys Ozzie. It’s like the stars aligned to spit out Ozzie's perfect nemesis. Jonathan Walsh is a blueprint on how to make Ozzie's life miserable.

Walsh kept the candy corn in a glass, perfect for showing off its cheery orange, yellow, and white. He never ate a whole piece at once, nope. Walsh chewed on the tip like some frat boy Bugs Bunny.

“They’re not even good!” Ozzie told him once. Walsh wanted to bury his story about corruption in outer borough housing, replace it with a lead about a five-legged giraffe. Ozzie was mad, and the candy corn was a low-hanging fruit.

Walsh nibbled away in his big boy boss chair. “I like them," he said.

“They’re like globs of painted ear wax. Why can't you get good candy like any decent human being?”

Walsh cocked his head. “What’s the good candy?” he asked, like he expected Ozzie to share a lifetime of Halloween candy wisdom.

“Anything but those!” Ozzie shouted. “M&Ms! Hershey kisses! Get some goddamn Reese’s cups, I don’t care!” Yes, he yelled. In his boss' office. About candy corn. It was Walsh's fault though, anything that elevated Ozzie's blood pressure could inevitably be traced back to Walsh.

Walsh mulled over the candy outburst, like he cared more about it than Ozzie's story on living conditions for the homeless out on Rockaway Beach. “I don’t know, Ozzie,” Walsh said. “Candy corn is pretty popular. And it isn’t bad! Not a whole lot of flavor, but...I don’t know. It makes sense to me.”

“Why does it have to make sense? It’s _candy corn_.”

Walsh considered this too. “Guess you’re right. I can't be wasting calories on subpar candy." He grinned. "Thanks, buddy! You can go now.”

Ozzie hated Walsh’s bro diet. He hated being dismissed like some school kid from detention. He hated having his stories downplayed like they weren’t good enough for Walsh’s garbage paper. And he hated that, the next day, there were Reese’s cups on Walsh's desk.

Ozzie hates that he's remembering this now, too. It means he's thinking about Walsh way too much. Again.

***

“What the hell…” Ozzie wakes to a smear of light between his eyelids. It takes awhile to distinguish the white walls from the white ceiling and the white floors.

Ozzie knows exactly where he is. It flashes in front of him like shifting kaleidoscope wheels. He’s been here before. As an adult. As a kid. He’s played with toys on the floor and been strapped to an examination table. Ozzie remembers a guy with long, white hair nodding along to some imaginary beat. He remembers a short gray dude too, grumbling and fussing about.

Ozzie focuses on the figure hovering over him now, a familiar face with unfamiliar eyes. Yellow with black slits down the middle like a snake.

Funny, Ozzie always thought Walsh was a snake. Called him plenty worse back before he knew what Walsh really was. Walsh is in a charcoal flight suit, zipped to the neck. Leave it to the guy to find a tailor for his alien outfit. He looks stupidly polished in it, like he does in everything.

Ozzie groans and stretches. Last thing he remembers is being in the woods with Walsh and that creep with the gun. The gun went off. His body jerked and sizzled. Then he was on the ground, and Walsh was looking at him. Head cocked, confused, like he just found out candy corn was a terrible fucking candy.

“Walsh?” Ozzie starts to sit up, and takes it slower when the room tilts. “What happened?”

“Jeff was right…” Walsh says, too quiet. It's like he doesn't know Ozzie is awake, or sitting up, or that he’s in this - wait, what the hell?

“Am I in a box?” Ozzie asks.

“I’ll tell you later,” Walsh says. “We’ve got to go now.”

Ozzie doesn’t like waiting for answers. Journalism has taught him to push until he gets the truth. Seriously, Ozzie is on a spaceship! Some X-Files hovercraft who-knows-where with Jonathan Walsh. If Ozzie doesn’t get the truth now, how long is Walsh going to avoid him? Maybe he’ll hit up another planet entirely, leave Ozzie and the rest of Earth to whatever alien apocalyptic fate is coming.

“Ozzie.” Walsh shakes his head, like he can hear Ozzie's thoughts. Maybe he can, some freaky Reptilian super power. “I promise,” he says. “Later. We can’t stay here.”

“You don't want to stay on your ship?” Ozzie mutters.

“Not mine,” Walsh tells him. “Never was. Let’s go.” This raises more questions, a dizzying rush of possibility. But Ozzie's feet still move, still follow Walsh out of the bright white room into a far darker hallway. Red lights blink and monitors flash like something out of some space horror flick Ozzie never saw. Sorry, Sigourney Weaver, no Alien franchise for him. Maybe it's by design that Ozzie never got into sci-fi. Maybe they made him stick to true-to-life dramas and indie comedies.

Walsh leads him to a room. Dark and nondescript, like the hallways, except for one marked difference. A white oval platform elevated in the center of the floor. “Are you serious?” Ozzie grumbles.

Walsh takes Ozzie’s hand and pulls him onto the platform. Ozzie wants to know what he’s doing, what they’re trying to get away from. How long has Ozzie been up here? Why was he in that box?

He looks at his hand in Walsh’s instead.

***

It’s a sunny Tuesday when Ozzie leaves the church. There's a hint of chill in the air, a smokiness signalling the start of fall. Walsh is leaning against Ozzie’s car, grinning, hand lifted in greeting. Ozzie wonders how Walsh picked up how to be human, did he study at the school of How to be a Douche Bro 101? It's crazy, Walsh had to _learn_  to be a Grade A jackass. Given the evidence, he's a damn good student.

Walsh still isn’t welcome inside the church. A lot apparently happened from the time Ozzie took that bullet...ray...thing for Walsh in the woods. No one’s out to get Walsh anymore, but the group is still wary around him. He's still an alien, and kind of a prick too. Uneasy murmurs follow awkward waves from his fellow Star-Crossed members. Richard, of course, points accusingly. He's given up his revenge plot but hasn't given up on his girlfriend exploding. Repeated explanations that “Nancy isn’t dead, she has to be reset, that’s all” fall on deaf ears.

The only one who smiles is Alex, because she’s the only one who believed Ozzie in those woods. ‘Trust Walsh’ he said. Thank god those weren’t Ozzie’s last words. His final living thought, about Jonathan Walsh? Not cool.

Alex trusts Walsh for her own reasons too. Reasons she’s only broached with Ozzie, slowly, cautious. “You were gone, Ozzie. Walsh brought you back.”

“Yeah, from his crazy spaceship thing, I know.”

Alex still hasn’t told him the whole story, but there’s always something in her face. A little sad, a little hopeful. “No. Not from his crazy spaceship thing.”

Ozzie crosses the lot and greets Walsh with a grumbled, “Get off my car, man.” He frowns when Walsh holds a paper bag out to him, folded at the top like a kid’s lunch. “What is it?” he asks. Some clue to the greater alien conspiracy? A lead that will help them find other Reptilian rebels?

“Reese’s-topped chocolate peanut butter donut.” Walsh thrusts the bag into Ozzie's hands and grins like he just solved world hunger. “I had to get it for you! You’re the one who turned me on to those things. They are _so_ much better than candy corn. How come that stuff gets so much pub down here? What’d you call it that one time? Globs of ear wax?”

Ozzie shakes the bag accusingly. “You came here to give me a donut?”

“I came to say what’s up, buddy!” Walsh smacks his arm; this, too, he must have learned from a bunch of 90’s bro flicks. He’s smiling wide and bright, and Ozzie wants to smack him, or rip his face off. The fake one, baby soft skin and twinkling, not-real eyes. Ozzie wants him to be real, like he was in that cabin.

Ozzie sighs, how does he even ask for that? It was weird enough finding out his ex-boss is an alien. Now, he’s Ozzie's Reptilian friend. Reptilian savior, even. Because Walsh did save Ozzie, right? He was trapped in that spaceship, and Walsh got him out. Walsh didn’t leave Ozzie behind, even with his own neck on the line.

Unlike their good old days at the paper, Walsh doesn’t pour on the smarm. His giddiness flips to a curious, cocked head. Is Walsh actually concerned, or is this one more thing he's learned to do? ‘Ozzie Graham is a sucker for sympathy. Act like you care.'

Ozzie mumbles, “I need to drive.”

“Oh, sure, yeah.” Walsh glances between Ozzie and the car.

Ozzie blows out a breath. “Get in,” he mutters, and Walsh nods. He doesn’t smile, he’s deferring to Ozzie’s mood. It’s not the Walsh Ozzie knows now, but it’s one he maybe used to. The one his kid-self liked enough to draw pictures of and call a friend. The one Ozzie jumped in front of when that gun went off.

Walsh is important. If there _are_ more of him out there, other rebels against this Earth takeover, Walsh has to find them. He has to convince them to… What, fight? Overthrow this mass alien invasion before it's too late?

“Hey, Ozzie.” Walsh sets hands on his arms.

“You remember that cabin?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Let’s go there.” Ozzie stuffs his keys in Walsh’s hand. “Drive.”

Walsh looks at the tangle of metal, then at Ozzie, mouth open like he has something else to say. The Walsh Ozzie knows would have plenty more. Crack some joke about getting him alone, complete with suggestive brow waggle - god, he’s a prick.

But there’s no joke now, just a nod and a slight smile. Walsh heads to the driver’s side, and Ozzie climbs in. He's dizzy, cradling the donut bag. Ozzie thinks about Reese's cups and learning to be human. He thinks about Walsh leaning over him when he woke up. Amazed, a little scared, whispering, “Jeff was right…”

***

Ozzie has to admit, it’s a pretty amazing donut. It has peanut butter cream with crumbles of Reese's cups on top. Walsh watches him eat the entire thing, a glance here and there as they drive. “Eh? It’s good right? What do you think? Best thing ever, isn’t it? Ozzie?”

“Fine. Yes. It’s fantastic,” Ozzie grumbles, in hopes that it will shut the guy up. Walsh lights up like a holiday and drives on with a smile on his face.

It fades when Ozzie asks about Don. “Kelly wants to know,” Ozzie presses. “Have you see him?”

“Yeah.” Walsh answers like his head’s miles away. “Don’s good. He needs some time, you know?”

Ozzie doesn’t know, he was in a box when everything was going down. The entire Star-Crossed gang, abducted in one go, left with their memories intact at the end? It's insane, impossible. But so is the fact that a giant Geico mascot is currently driving Ozzie's car.

Walsh shrugs. “Not every day a guy gets an evil cube in his head.”

“Wait, what?” Ozzie raises a brow, scowling when Walsh doesn’t offer any other explanation. “You still haven’t told me what I was doing up there. I got shot in the woods, next thing I know we’re up in some spaceship, and you’re giving me this look like-”

“It’s this way,” Walsh says. The bare trees give way to a small clearing, and the cabin in the middle of the open circle. No signs of life, save a pair of squirrels scuttling through the grass. Fallen autumn leaves blanket the ground in a quilt of red, yellow, and brown.

The slam of Ozzie’s car door sounds louder than usual in the quiet. Walsh pauses next to the driver’s side, a hand on the roof. “Haven’t been back here since...you know.”

“Me neither,” Ozzie says, which may go without saying. He lost time between when he was last here and now. It’s uncomfortable to think about. He forces his thoughts to shift. “You get yourself one of those donuts?”

“Nah. All you, buddy,” Walsh says. “I was feeling the hush puppies at the burger joint out by the Hudson.”

“You? Hush puppies?” Ozzie raises a brow. “Thought you were going paleo, Mister ‘I Want to Eat Like a Caveman.’”

Walsh shakes his head, “Oh no, I’m kind of addicted to fast food now. Glimmer’s fault.”

Ozzie squints at him. “Glimmer. Like, Officer Glimmer?”

“Yeah, we were roommates for awhile. Kind of a long story.” Walsh cocks his head, and adds, “He’s human, just gave me a place to crash, that's all. I learned a lot from him. Eating on a dime. Ramen. Bacon cheddar burgers. And Twinkies, man. Twinkies make no sense, but they are _amazing._ ”

“Let’s go inside, huh?” Ozzie crunches across leaves to the cabin door. He doesn’t want to think about cops covering for giant lizards, or aliens slurping up ramen.

Inside is tidy enough, no clutter or signs of anyone squatting in the space. But a fine layer of dust covers everything. Ozzie brushes a chair off with his hand and grimaces as he sits. He makes a mental note to wash everything he's wearing as soon as he gets home.

Walsh stays on his feet, taking his time walking the perimeter of the room. He runs fingers along a window pane, five trails of clear glass drawn into the dust.

“So,” Ozzie drums a hand on the small circle kitchenette. “You eat Twinkies now.”

“Oh yeah. You like them? Because I swear, I’ve been hoarding those things. Everything else on this planet expires, but Twinkies last forever.”

“Yeah, there’s a reason why humans shouldn’t eat those much. Things that don’t break down don’t belong in a guy’s stomach.”

“You do have sensitive digestive tracts,” Walsh agrees. No big deal, just discussing a whole species’ digestive system. Walsh tilts his head. “You wanted to come out here to talk about Twinkies?”

“I want to find out what the hell happened on your ship,” Ozzie says.

“I told you, it’s not my ship," Walsh protests, like who owns the freaking ship is the most important thing.

“Why was I in that box? How did I miss months of time? Didn’t you know what was wrong with me? How to fix it?”

He’s surprised by how Walsh’s face slacks, the uncertain shine in his false human eyes. “I didn’t know how to fix it,” Walsh admits. He joins Ozzie at the kitchenette, sits across from him with elbows folded on the tabletop. “I’ve seen a weapon like that before, but never used on a human.” Dust gets all over Walsh’s sleeves. Ozzie decides that he deserves it for wearing his hipster flannel.

The explanation is something at least. But the reporter and alien experiencer in Ozzie still have a ton of questions. “What’s it do to your kind?” he asks. “Stun you like it did me?”

Walsh frowns, hesitates. “No, Ozzie, it would have killed me.”

“So whatever it was,” Ozzie pursues eagerly, “it would have killed you, but it reacted differently to my biology.”

Walsh is quiet for awhile. “No,” he says. “It didn’t react different to you.”

“Walsh-"

“You were kinda dead for a few months, bud.”

Ozzie gapes, stammering over pieces of words. “But. That’s not. How. Did everyone think I was dead?” It crosses his mind that he hasn't spoken to his parents since he's been back. In horror, he realizes this is probably a good thing. 

“Oh yeah,” Walsh nods. “Funeral and everything. I couldn't go. Would have been awkward, but it seemed nice. From what I could see, I mean...I was up top so-"

“How the hell was I dead?” Ozzie demands. “I woke up! With you, in that damn box. Wait. Was that a coffin!?”

“Yeah see,” Walsh frowns, “you _were_ in a coffin. But I moved you into one of the pods when-"

“Pods!?”

Walsh blows out a frustrated breath. “I was trying to get you back, Ozzie! I couldn't leave you in the ground, do you know how fast humans decay down there?”

“No.” Ozzie shakes his head. “And I don't want to know. Don't tell me.”

“It’s impressive,” Walsh tells him anyway. “Sick, but impressive. Your skin just recedes, man. It's nasty how it melts away so fast. And that's not counting what the bugs do to you.” He shudders at the thought. “I didn’t want that to happen to you,” Walsh confesses. “I didn’t know how to stop it, I just knew I had to.” He trails off, like this explains everything. No more questions to answer, time to wrap this up and head home.

Ozzie gawks like Walsh has three heads, which would be weird. Even weirder than a lizard man wearing a stupid-pretty face. “If I was dead, how am I alive now?” Ozzie asks.

Walsh breaks eye contact, watching own foot tap on the floorboards. “I don’t know,” he says.

“What do you mean you don’t know? You said Jeff was right. What was he right about?”

“I don’t have an answer for you, Ozzie. I don’t know why you’re back, just...I didn’t want you to die. Maybe that was enough.”

Ozzie scowls at the excuse. He’s a journalist, the last thing his brain wants to accept is the unexplainable, but it's all his life is now. Aliens! Evil cubes! Resurrection! He slumps in his chair. “What’d you do,” he grumbles, “wish upon a star?”

Walsh frowns. “What, like Disney? I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“Oh yeah, totally.” Ozzie hates him so much. He balls his fists tighter, glares across the table. The sun from the window hits one side of Walsh’s face. The light makes his eyes look even more fake, or maybe Ozzie is imagining it. Maybe it's something in his own head that makes his skin start to crawl. “Am I a zombie?”

“You’re not a zombie, Ozzie,” Walsh mutters. Like he’s seen zombies, and how dare Ozzie claim to be one. Ozzie hates him more than he’s hated anyone in his life.

“Fine. Did the gun thing turn me into an alien too? Or hey! Did you kiss me like some stupid fairy tale? Walsh, this is the dumbest thing- why are you looking at me like that?”

Walsh is definitely looking like something. Wide eyed, mouth open. When he notices Ozzie's attentiveness, he clears his throat and sniffs, two things an alien shouldn't need to do. They’re mannerisms Walsh has adopted, like every other bit of his human routine. “I don’t know what happened, Ozzie,” he says. “I wish I did. I’m sorry.”

It’s not like an alien to clear his throat, and it’s not like Jonathan Walsh to apologize. Ozzie goes back over what he said before. “Did the gun thing turn me into an alien? Holy shit, am I like you? Is this even my skin? Do I have gnarly reptile scales undern-”

“You’re not an alien, Ozzie, geez.” Walsh huffs and glances out the window. “I kissed you, alright?”

“You what?” Out of all the wild guesses, this isn’t the one Ozzie expected to strike gold with.

“It worked when Jeff did it with Kurt. I didn’t know if it would work with you, but things were bad," Walsh shifts uncomfortably. "I had to try.”

“Who the hell is Kurt?” Ozzie asks. It’s not the question he should follow with, but it's a good distraction. It's not ‘dead’ and ‘kiss’ and ‘life’ and ‘I had to try.’

“Kurt’s like me. Reptilian. He’s a cool guy, you’d like him. He’s on bedrest right now. Has a thing for getting hit by cars. This is like the third or fourth time now, poor bastard.”

“What?” Ozzie shakes his head quickly. “Never mind. So Jeff kissed this Kurt guy, and Kurt was dead but came back to life.”

“Yeah, weird right?”

“So,” Ozzie leans forward in his chair. “You kissed me, and I came back to life.”

“Yeah, crazy right?”

Ozzie scowls; of all the times for Walsh to turn mute. Walsh is on his feet, retreating to the window and drumming fingers along the ledge. Ozzie sees the uncomfortable clench of his fake jaw, the bob of his fake Adam’s apple.

“So you…” Ozzie hesitates, wondering where he should go with this, where he _wants_ to go. “You wanted me back. You kissed me. And it worked.”

“Yeah.” Walsh shrugs. “It’s not all that exciting. Just strange, I guess.” He closes his eyes, it's like he feels more comfortable in the sun. Ozzie thinks of pet lizards and heating lamps. He feels a little queasy.

“What’s one more freak thing in my life, right?” Ozzie sighs, tilting his head in thought. “What kind of kiss was it?”

“What?” Walsh squints at him.

“Was it long? Short? Did you use tongue?”

“You were dead,” Walsh mumbles, glaring. “Why the hell would I use my tongue?”

Ozzie shrugs off his protest, and refuses to dwell on the thought that maybe, if alive, the tongue thing would have happened. Does he even have a regular tongue, or is it forked and snake-like? “Did you say anything?”

Walsh doesn't look like he wants to answer, teeth grit and warm in the face. Should a cold-blooded alien be capable of blushing? Biology was never Ozzie's strong suit.

“I guess I...said goodbye?” Walsh cringes. “I didn’t know it was going to work, man. It was an impulse. Jeff did it with Kurt, I figured it couldn't hurt. Then you woke up! And... I don’t know. I didn’t have time to think. I still haven’t. You’re back, that’s all that matters.”

It should be all that matters, but it isn't, for a disconcerting reason Ozzie can’t put his finger on. Walsh looks miserable, and Ozzie can't help but be fascinated. 

“You can trust me,” Walsh says, out of nowhere.

“Trust you?”

“Yeah. You told Alex to trust me and find the others. You can still trust me. And we'll find the others, Ozzie. I don't know how, but we will.” Walsh is oddly serious, and Ozzie buys it. He does.

But the whole thing still makes him angry. He glowers across the room. “Is your name even Jonathan Walsh?”

Surprise shows in Walsh's quirked smile. “Yeah, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Names are a bigger thing out here. You're all so…unique. They're a big part of who you are. It's not like that where I'm from. We all kinda look the same, we're not big on identity. We'll pick a name for work and stuff. Hell, some change their name from day to day. It all depends.”

Ozzie regrets asking. “So, out of all the names you could have picked, you went with Jonathan Walsh.”

“Walsh, actually.” He shrugs. “Didn't need two names until the Earth assignment.”

It’s too much. This is insane. Ozzie’s life is crazy, that he’s alive is crazier. Because of what, a kiss from his alien frog prince? But Ozzie does trust him. It’s the worst part of this whole thing. Ozzie jumped in front of Walsh because he believes the guy, he wants the truth, and - fine - he didn't want Walsh to die. He would have missed the bastard, aggravating as he is.

Ozzie had never seen Walsh freeze like that, the sudden fear, the resigned slump to his shoulders. Ozzie couldn't let the guy die, and apparently Walsh couldn't let him die either. He doesn't know what this means, but it's probably something.

“I know you said you're not in love with me, but it’d go a long way towards explaining the kiss thing.”

“How’s that?”

Ozzie doesn't believe he's going here but, “Sleeping Beauty? Snow White? True love's kiss?”

Walsh whistles low. “Man, someone still thinks a little highly of himself.” He smiles, but it's the complete opposite of how he normally looks. Not cocky, not preening. It's soft, an inside joke between friends...for whatever Ozzie and Walsh are now.

“Hey,” Ozzie counters, “you're the one kissing me.”

“True love's kiss though? Get out of here.” Walsh props himself against the window, and Ozzie thinks of how much the pose would have riled him a year ago. Look at this guy. Where's the camera? How did he get stuck working for a pinup?

Now, Ozzie can't help but wonder why he's doing it. Is it something he learned from his How to Human guidebook? Was Walsh always like this, before he came to Earth? Or is it still all for Ozzie: the looks, the attitude, everything?

“Do the eye thing,” Ozzie blurts.

“What? Really?”

“Everything about you is fake,” Ozzie tells him. “I'm sick of it. I want the real you.”

Walsh wants to refuse. Ozzie sees his hesitance in his bit lip and pinched brow. But after a minute, he blinks, and baby blues become yellow. His pupils streak like zebra stripes. A corner of Walsh's mouth tugs downward.

Ozzie waits for the shock to hit like last time, the aversion and fear. But he finds himself shaking his head instead. “You make no sense,” he says.

Walsh chuckles, visibly relaxing. “Cool. You don’t either.”

“I can't believe you kissed me back to life! Who does that?”

“This guy,” Walsh enthuses. “And...Jeff, I guess. I don't get it. We're not even from the same system.” It's disturbing how easily Ozzie can read him like this. He gets the frustration in Walsh's yellow eyes, the impatient tension in his mouth. It's better than he ever understood his off-the-wall boss.

“Must have been a good kiss,” Ozzie says.

Walsh scoffs, but he's grinning. “Oh yeah, totally. I'm a natural.”

“Uh-huh." Ozzie has so many questions, though. Like, how does an alien learn to kiss in the first place? Was that Walsh's first kiss? It makes sense now that Walsh never had a date at any of the company holiday parties. Ozzie always thought Walsh never wanted to limit his options. He had interns and an open bar, what more did a rich, spoiled brat need?

He wonders why the yellow eyes have him feeling so at ease. Ozzie's guard is finally down for the first time since he woke up in that box. He trusts this Walsh, and this Walsh trusts him, didn't want him to die, got him back against all odds.

“So who designed all this?” Ozzie wonders, waving over Walsh’s reclined body. “You come up with it yourself?”

“Oh no, they set anyone going undercover with a suit,” Walsh explains. “They design it for the assignment. I was some rich kid, it’s kinda perfect, don't you think?”

This is surreal. Ozzie’s head hurts, but Walsh is watching him so expectantly that he has to respond. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.” It's getting to be too much.

Walsh must be able to tell. “Guess we should head back, huh?”

“Not yet,” Ozzie replies.

“Not yet? What for?”

“I don't know,” Ozzie says, and it’s true, he doesn't. He just knows he isn't ready to leave. “It’s different out here.” Insane as this is, he's not ready to go back to normal.

Walsh tips his head against the glass. “I get it,” he says, and Ozzie believes him. He can't help but think that Walsh has always gotten him somehow, as much as Ozzie hated him. Or thought he hated him. Or whatever they are now, whatever this is. The warm, comfortable thing that makes Ozzie want to stay out here for awhile. Just him, and Walsh, and his bizarre yellow eyes.

“Thanks,” Ozzie says, “for saving my life.”

Walsh smiles in answer. “Thanks for the kiss. Not that you had a choice, but...yeah. It was good.”

The sentiment should annoy Ozzie, but he finds himself smiling back. It's the weirdest thing, Walsh is the weirdest thing.

Problem is, Ozzie thinks he may be starting to like weird.

*The End*


End file.
